A Song Yet Unsung
by Keniaia
Summary: The Girl Who Lived is drawn into the wizarding world, but darker things lurk beneath the magic. AU


**A Song Yet Unsung**

**I own nothing you recognise – that all belongs to J.K Rowling. I'm merely playing in her sandbox. **

The unpleasant acrid stink of disinfectant tinged with blood filled the air as a nurse rushed past James, the wheels of the trolley she pushed clattering loudly over the faded blue linoleum. He shifted uncomfortably, running a hand through his hair to hide his irritation. It had been hours ago when Lily had first gone into labour, her slender fingers digging hard enough to bruise his arm when he Apparated her into a filthy alleyway a few yards from the hospital. He didn't remember the name of the place, some Muggle saint with a reputation for protectiveness over children. He could be glad of that, at least. On this lazy summer evening, the heat thick and stifling even under the whirr of the machine Muggles used for cool air, his family needed all the help that they could get.

Heels squeaked as a doctor walked past his seat, giving him a curious look. Perhaps she knew that his wife was in labour in the ward he sat in front of, and wondered why he was not in there with her. Or perhaps something else. James casually slid a hand into his pocket, curling his fingers around the handle of his wand as he watched her disappear around the corner. Merlin, he was turning into Moody – but Moody had survived a long career as an Auror, and after just a few years spent on the job, James could appreciate what that was worth. Course, Moody hadn't dealt with the Darkest wizard of all time personally hunting for him and his wife – but it wasn't as if James had had much experience with that either. It had been only a few months ago when Dumbledore warned both them and the Longbottoms that Voldemort was furious at their continued living after they had escaped three times, that the Death Eaters were eager to finish them off to earn their master's favour. Just a few months ago, but how their lives had changed since then.

Time blurred and ran like melting candle-wax as James waited, his heart thudding painfully as Lily's shrieks grew louder. Too dangerous to go to St. Mungos, that was what they had agreed – no one knew how many people could have turned or been Imperiused, and who would look for them in a quiet little Muggle hospital? Still, he wondered whether everything was all right, whether they should have stuck to magic after all – but when a beaming nurse called him inside the ward, everything else fell away.

Lily lay on a narrow bed, cradling a small bundle in her arms. Her hair was a mess, her face drawn, she was covered in a sheen of sweat, and she had never looked more beautiful to James. He kissed her quickly before his gaze was drawn down to the red-faced creature she held.

The small head already boasted tufty black hair, but the hands and feet were tiny, delicate beyond measure. James stroked the cheek, pride and surprise welling up in him. "It's a girl."

Lily nodded, smiling wanly as she reached for his hand. "We'll need a new name, won't we?"

_Harry. _That was what they would have called their son, after Lily's father, lost in a car crash not two years before. James searched his memory for what they had chosen for a daughter. Something from his side, they had said – but which to choose? His mother had been one Dorea enough, and the Blacks featured heavily in his line. Not a Cedrella, this little girl of his, certainly not an Elladora or Walburga. Andromeda was a pretty name, but he would always know it as the brave girl who chose a Muggleborn over everything she'd been taught, and he'd kiss Snape before he'd call his daughter Narcissa or Bellatrix. But there was another...

"Lucretia," he said beaming, thinking of a woman with silvered hair and a face lined from laughing. Sirius had had gold from his uncle Alphard, but it was Tia Prewett who looked the other way when he fled to James's house, and mothered the Prewett siblings when they lost their parents at such a young age. Besides, it was a pretty name, pretty enough to match the child that James was sure was the best-looking in the hospital – no, the world.

Lily pulled a face, even as her eyes softened. "Tia Potter? I don't know..."

"She can be Lu, then," James pointed out, cupping the baby's head gently. "Lucretia Potter. Our little girl."

* * *

In the Hog's Head, as Marlene McKinnon lay cold in the ground and Gideon and Fabian fought and lost over rain-slicked cobbles, Albus Dumbledore listened in silence as a woman draped in gauzy shrouds rasped out words only she could hear.

"_The one with the power to vanquish the Dark Lord approaches ... born to those who have thrice defied him, born as the seventh month dies ... and the Dark Lord will mark her as his equal, but she will have power the Dark Lord knows not ... and either must die at the hand of the other for neither can live while the other survives ... the one with the power to vanquish the Dark Lord will be born as the seventh month dies ..._"

* * *

Petunia Dursley had scarcely glanced at the letter sent by her sister a year previously before consigning it to the fire, filled with a grim satisfaction as the parchment – were these people so backwards, that they could not use paper like normal people? - curled into ashes. As if she cared that Lily had had a daughter, as long as her freak of a sister kept her family far, far away from Petunia's. Her darling little Diddykins was the most precious child she had ever seen, and she would be damned before Lily's freakish baby came within three miles of him. But that had been before that cold November morning, when Petunia opened the door for milk and instead found an infant lying on her doorstep.

The letter pinned to the blanket had quickly followed Lily's into the flames, but not before she had had to read through the loopy, slanting handwriting to find out what had happened.

_'...Lily and James perished in the attack...No other relatives...Blood protections...Only way to ensure her safety...'_

It was galling, how that wretched man expected her to take in that...that freak, with no objections, as if she somehow owed it to Lily, to _him_, to take in a child that barely counted as her flesh and blood. And of course, he had written so kindly, just as he had done in that letter long ago, when her fragile dream and secret hope had come crashing down around her-

Well. That had been long ago, obviously. When she had been young and foolish, and hadn't realised that it was _she_ who was blessed, she who was a proper, decent human being, unlike her parents' precious _Lily_. Certainly unlike this abnormal infant, whose wails she could hear from all the way downstairs in the kitchen. Her Dudders was a loud, healthy boy who made what he wanted clear – but he wasn't like this baby, who swung between unearthly screaming and unsettling silence. Vernon could barely stand her, and Petunia couldn't blame him. As she turned off the tap and stormed upstairs to try and quiet the brat's crying, she found herself wondering why she had argued to keep her in the first place.

When they were expecting Dudders, they repainted the room, bought as many toys as a boy could want and added more daily, purchased a crib that was of the latest fashion according to Petunia's glossy magazines. The other crib had been sent by Marge and tactfully hidden up in the attic, reluctantly dragged down again when they realised the baby was here to stay. It squatted in the corner of the room like some monstrous beast, heavy and ugly, throwing slated shadows across the new carpet. Behind the iron bars, a small form clenched its fists and screamed without stopping.

The infant was red-faced as it bawled, her legs kicking ineffectually under the heavy blanket. Petunia gripped the edge, the painted wood rough and splintery beneath her palm, and glared down at her. "Will you be _quiet!_"

If anything, it made the brat wail louder, and with great distaste, Petunia was forced to pick her up, awkwardly balancing the child in her arms. It was an ugly thing, she thought with spiteful triumph, nothing like her golden-haired Dudley at all. Eyes an abnormally green colour were prominent in a thin face, its hair a heavy black tangle. "She wouldn't have been happy with you," she found herself telling it, old spite welling up and out of her as she stared at the thing she'd taken in. "Probably didn't care about you at all. If she had, she wouldn't have gone gallivanting off to get herself killed. Everything had to be perfect for perfect Lily, but oh, it was never good enough, was it? You certainly weren't."

The baby stared at her wide-eyed, but at least it had stopped screaming. Petunia nodded in grim satisfaction, putting her back down quickly. She had no intention of clearing up Lily's mess, of being the mother to this..._Lucretia._ Her lips pursed at the thought. How like Lily, to give her child a strange, freakish name to match her heritage. Once, they had whispered under the covers of their beds of girls with other names – Rosemary, Violet, Holly, Heather, Daisy – and of matching houses with ivory trim, but those days had been long ago, and Petunia had grown up, while Lily had grown away. How like her, to die so young and irresponsibly, and leave Petunia to remain to pick up what she'd left behind. But Petunia had her own family now, one far better than Lily had been able to make. She turned on her heel and left the room, closing the door with a defiant snap.

Behind her, a lightning bolt scar gleamed in the darkness and Lucretia Potter dreamed of green light.

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